A teacher's influence shines on

View full sizeMr. Nick Verzella: 8th grade English teacher, a giant in his students' eyes.

He wore a bright yellow polo to the book signing - a color that seemed superfluous given the fact that he was already, as Thomas Merton once wrote, "shining like the sun."

There he was, Mr. Nick Verzella, my 8th grade English teacher, sitting in Barnes and Noble in Rochester, NY where I was reading from my book "The Waiting Place." Sharing a dream come true with my hometown was exciting enough. Having him grace me with his presence was almost too much to take in.

Three decades have passed since I sat in the third row of his classroom, but I recall it like it was just a few semesters ago. He was more than an English teacher; he was a hometown hero and a dynamic force who believed in America, education, a well-written sentence and newspapers.

I grew up in a city that offered both morning and evening papers. Mr. Verzella integrated them into his curriculum, holding us accountable for their content. Students who failed to reach for the news before school dreaded stepping foot in his classroom, fearing a pop quiz.

It wasn't easy for a bunch of 14-year-olds to read the papers, especially when we were more interested in the opposite sex. Personally, it didn't help that I most preferred reading Erma Bombeck, Dear Abby, the comics, and Heloise. (Much to my disappointment, Mr. Verzella never once quizzed us on a household hint.)

In spite of my leanings, I fell in love with the idea of newspapers. I liked how they magically landed on our doorsteps every morning and how the Sunday paper looked strewn across the living room rug. Back then, I had no way of predicting that the national narrative would one day seek to villianize teachers or that newspapers would be held hostage by the digital age. All I knew is that I liked knowing. Inside my teenage brain, I knew Mr. Verzella was giving us a gift.

Paige PhotographyVerzella, a WWII veteran, honors those who paid the ultimate price.

There were many things that this great man, a World War II veteran, could have done with his professional life. The fact that he chose teaching, perhaps the most noble and humbling profession of all, astounds me as an adult.

I have no idea how he transitioned from the 78th Infantry Division to his second floor, red-white-and-blue-decorated classroom, which "The Democrat and Chronicle" once called "a shrine to American heroes and patriotism." There must have been days when he felt like hitting his head against the chalkboard in frustration.

Nevertheless, he gave his students his best for 39 years, no doubt buoyed by the words of Abraham Lincoln: "I do the very best I know how, the very best I can, and I mean to keep on doing so until the end."

No one messed with Mr. Verzella, who had both a quick temper and an enormous heart. He was tough, but kind. Kind enough to spend his lunch hour working with student leaders ... kind enough to spend extra time diagramming sentences with a struggling teen ... kind enough to show up to a former student's book discussion 30 years after she had exited his classroom.

He peered over my shoulder as I signed his book at Barnes and Noble and commented on my handwriting. "Not bad," he said, his eyes squinted, his arms folded across his yellow polo.

Instantly, I wished I had been more careful with his inscription, proving with my penmanship that his investment in my life had paid off. Three decades later, I was still conscious of disappointing him. I wanted to give him my best as he had given me his.

My former teacher's shining presence reminds me to express thanks to those who lay the foundation in our lives, those that help make us who we are. "As we express our gratitude, we must never forget the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them," John F. Kennedy once said.

Although I'm sure good teachers everywhere agree, a handwritten note is nice to receive, too.

Eileen Button is a weekly columnist for The Flint Journal and the author of The Waiting Place.